


How Precious Is the Time We Have Here

by sister_dear



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: All the LU boys are here, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spirits, Angst, Chronic Fatigue, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Depression, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), No one dies in this story but someone spends some time thinking they might, Plus various ladies and other NPCs from a variety of the Zelda games, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Terminal Illnesses, Zelda-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_dear/pseuds/sister_dear
Summary: Things Zelda finds after mortal doctors tell her she will die: nine spirits who say otherwise, a world full of beauty, and the will to live for herself.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	How Precious Is the Time We Have Here

Zelda finds a ranch. She follows the pull of magic beneath a humble arch bearing humble lettering, past a house and several barns, pausing only when a woman emerges from the cucco coop. The woman is loud and strong and kind, with laughing eyes and hair like flame. She takes in Zelda, a teenager alone, dressed in fine new travelling gear with equally fine bow on her back, posture rigidly straight only due to long years of practice.

“You’ll be looking for the spirit, then,” the woman says, and surely it cannot be this simple. 

“I am, yes.” 

The woman nods. There is no surprise in her, nor any guile. “We’re out here a little ways, but we still get our fair share of pilgrims. Come on, then. He’s this way.”

The holy site is a small copse of trees with a view out over the pastureland. Fairies flit in and out of drooping branches, prayer ribbons fluttering on the breeze. The spirit isn’t visible, but a distinct power lingers in the air. 

The woman plants her feet at the edge of the trees, hands on her hips. “Time, dear. You have a guest.” 

A great armored warhorse flickers into view among the trees. All the air in Zelda’s lungs goes still. The spirit’s magic is a sudden and heady thing. His silver armor reflects the colorful fairy lights, his inky black coat shines, his pale mane and tail near glow. Lines of spirit magic, red and blue, crawl across the armor. The white eye that fixes on Zelda feels as though it stares into her very soul. 

The woman smiles at the spirit, nothing but fondness in her. “Malon,” he greets, affection returned. His voice is as powerful and ethereal as the rest of him. 

The spirit approaches them with steps that are careful and measured and lowers his great head to touch his nose briefly to Malon’s raised hand. Then he turns to Zelda and the full force of his attention bears down on her. 

She is a princess of Hyrule. Her shoulders do not fall beneath the weight of his regard, though she lowers her head in a polite bow. Her eyes do not fill with tears, though she can feel them burn. And her magic stays where it is, inert against her soul, though she longs to form of it a shield, any shield, to ward off the foreign power that sees too much.

”Child,” he says in a voice full of sorrow, and Zelda draws a ragged breath. 

△ △ △

Zelda is eighteen years old when the doctors tell her she will die. 

The sickness has settled deep into her lungs. Their best might slow it, but they cannot stop it. 

Her favorite festival is a few months away, and it might be her last. The head cook’s children will be three and five this year. Zelda will not see them grow, and mature, and come into their own. 

To think that a simple, lingering cough should come to this: Zelda and her mother coming before Hylia, having given up on all mortal means. Surely no illness is too much for the Goddess of the People. The Queen’s head tilts in a graceful bow, hands clasped before her chest. Zelda is the only one close enough to see how her mother’s hands take up the trembling that she will not allow in her voice as she prays. 

“Goddess Hylia, I stand before you in supplication. Not only for myself, but for the future of this great land, which you have sworn to protect, and as a member of the royal line. My daughter, your successor, has need of your aid. No mortal doctor can heal the sickness that has come upon her. I beg of you a boon, as you have provided to my ancestors. Do not allow the royal line, your line, to end here.”

They wait. Zelda breathes. She can do nothing else. There is a hollow inside her chest where her heart once was. Grief and fear have torn her open, and hope is left to dribble through the cracks they have made upon her soul. 

Still, the peace of the temple is calming. A welcome reprieve from the chaos her emotions have become. 

Soft yellow light suffuses the air, shining up from the feet of the goddess statue. A great presence comes down on the temple. Zelda feels it in her magic, a will both gentle and implacable. Her mother’s head lifts, hope welling up from the depths of her heart to play across her face. 

“I cannot do what you request.”

The Queen makes a sound that will remain in Zelda’s memory for the rest of her life. A soft gasp. Just a little thing. Nothing more than a slip of air entering lungs, quick and quiet and wet with unshed tears, cut off before it can gain a voice. 

Zelda listens as her mother tries not to cry and feels the fresh boiling of her emotions bury themselves beneath the ocean of her mother’s grief, feels herself again go numb. Surely the shock should not be so sharp. She has already been told that she will die. The greatest minds in all of Hyrule cannot save their future queen. And yet to hear it again, to hear it from the goddess herself? In that moment, Zelda becomes like ice.

△ △ △

“If I am to help you, it will leave you changed,” the Spirit of Time says. “It will steal your magic from you. It will have physical effects. It may not work at all.”

Zelda stands. Zelda breathes. Zelda tries to imagine living in a world without magic. Somewhere behind her, Malon makes a sound.

“But if it does work, I will live.”

“If all goes well, then yes. You will live.”

Zelda is a princess of Hyrule. She does not slouch. She does not cry. “Tell me what I must do.”

The Spirit of Time grows very grave indeed. “Hold up your hand.”

Zelda raises her hand, palm cupped as if to catch a trickle of water, and the Spirit of Time touches his nose to it. Zelda is surprised to find that she can feel the whisper of his breath across her skin, the delicate tickling of his whiskers. Somehow she didn’t expect him to be solid. Then his power follows, a heartbeat behind, and she cannot move. Cannot breathe. This magic is time stretching into eternity, the slow meandering shift of the seasons, the breathless space between heartbeats. It hooks into her soul, spreads through her veins. A portion of her own magic leaves her in a great rush. Zelda is left as lightheaded as if she has just undergone a trial of magical endurance beneath the critical gaze of her tutors. 

Zelda sways, and Malon’s hands are there under her elbows to catch her. 

The spirit watches her still. His ears are pricked, his attention focused, before he shakes his mane and exhales an equine blow. “My power is a fragment of a whole. It will not be enough on its own. We must gather my brothers.” 

Zelda waits for her magic to replenish. It does not. It dips and then steadies, as if it has found a new high point, much lower than the last. Her hands want to shake. Malon warps an arm around her waist, steady and comforting, keeps the other under her elbow. “More?” Zelda whispers. 

He dips his head, solemn. “There are nine of us.” 

Nine of them. Eight more. Zelda tries to imagine this feeling magnified eight times over, and can scarcely comprehend the thought. 

△ △ △

“Do not despair,” the goddess says. “There might yet be a way. Return when the moon has hidden her face and the stars shine brightly in the sky. Prepare yourself, daughter of my line. On a journey such as this, you may take none other with you.”

The words are near meaningless against the ice in Zelda’s soul. The intent that presses upon her magic is not. A journey. The goddess speaks of a journey. The goddess speaks of Zelda spending what may be her last days alone, away from those she loves.

“Two weeks,” the Queen states, and the ice in Zelda’s veins comes pouring out through her mother’s throat, in words short and clipped and preparing to say goodbye all over again. “So be it.”

Two weeks, Zelda finds, is an eternity. To wait. To prepare. To wonder. To not yet dare to hope. Two weeks is also not nearly enough time. She wishes to visit the sea. Instead she is outfitted with new traveling clothes, sturdy and fine and not a royal symbol to be found on any of them. Her bow is taken away and returned in pristine condition, likewise her favorite hunting knife. Her mother gifts her with tea time in the mornings, every moment she can spare through the rest of the day, and a travel bag, blessed by a great fairy, such as those carried by the heroes of old. Zelda is no hero. She wonders whether they felt like this, this yawning despair as they faced the inevitable, with only the unraveling threads of possible success to hold onto. 

In two weeks, Zelda stands before the goddess again. “I send you through time and space to another Hyrule. Find the spirits there, that they may help you.” 

A round, glowing circle of light appears in the center of the triforce embedded in the floor of the great temple. A portal. 

This is it? This is the boon of the goddess? Two sentences and a doorway?

The Queen’s arms envelop her, holding strong, spine unbending to curl around her. Her mother’s chest shudders. Zelda’s hair grows damp with tears. Zelda listens to her heartbeat, stares at the fine embroidery of her dress, and hugs her in return. Does her best to press this feeling into her memory, preserving it to bring out in moments of need. 

“Come back to me,” Zelda’s mother whispers. “No matter the outcome. I will be here. Come back to me, daughter.” 

“I will,” Zelda promises. Her throat closes, cutting off anything more. 

They pull away, staring into each other’s faces, the Queen’s hands tenderly cupping her jaw, the back of her skull.

The feeling of that last touch lingers as Zelda steps into the portal. She holds it close, a shield against the world, as golden magic whisks her away. 

△ △ △

Malon accompanies Zelda and the Spirit of Time through the ranch, back towards the road. Somewhere further along it lies this world's version of Castle Town. Zelda can feel the pull of the spirits there, a focused nexus of magical power. Time walks alongside them, large and solemn and impossible to ignore, occasionally dipping his nose to touch Malon’s hair or meet her hands. “Might want to have this big ol’ spirit horse hide when you get to Castle Town, Dearie.” The Spirit of Time snorts at the description. Malon continues on, her voice full of cheer. “He tends to cause quite the stir otherwise. Of course, if you’re wanting an easy ticket in to see the princess, that might be just the thing.”

“Princess?” Zelda’s heart quickens.

“Yes, our dear Princess Dorotea! She’s just turned ten. From what I hear, all three of the spirits there in town are her fast friends.” 

When they reach the road Time turns his entire body around so he is facing Malon, hooves shuffling in the dirt, blowing gently into her face. ”I will return,” he tells her with great gravitas. 

Malon pats his cheek. “I’m sure you will, dear. Don’t worry about me. I’ll look after the place while you’re gone.”

And so it is that when Zelda leaves Lon Lon Ranch, she does so with a spirit tied to her very soul. She feels it in the refusal of her magic to regenerate any further, as a heaviness in her limbs. When the Time indicates she should ride, she cannot refuse, though some corner of her mind balks at the presumption.

“Tell me this will work,” she begs, away from Malon, with her hair like fire and her soul that is kind. “Tell me this is worth it.”

Time flicks his ears at her and does not slow his stride. ”I will not promise what I cannot guarantee.”

Hope dribbles through the cracks in Zelda’s soul. _“Come back to me,”_ whispers her mother. 

A sense of comfort, gentle recrimination, pushes against her mind. 

”But if there were no chance at all, I would not be with you now.”

Zelda is a princess of Hyrule. Her spine is straight, her face unstained by tears. For her mother. To see the sun rise over the oceans of her home. Eight more. 

△ △ △

In Castle Town, Zelda finds an unlooked for friend. She rides up to the gates with head held high like the royalty she is, upon a spirit steed. 

It is the spirit who speaks to the guards. “Let us pass. We have business with the princess.” 

“Honored Spirit!” One of them, a woman whose face and mind alike are marked by age and scars, stutters. “You’ve left Lon Lon Ranch?”

The Spirit of Time pins his ears and lowers his head. “I have business with the princess,” he repeats. “Send a messenger if you must. We will wait.” The guards look at Time, look at Zelda. The second, a young man who feels equally of awe and fear, slips through the doors. 

Zelda shifts her weight, preparing to dismount. Riding through open fields on the spirit is presumption enough; she dare not ride a warhorse through the middle of a bustling town in another princess’ kingdom. Time turns his head to glare, pins his ears and gives her a sharp mental nudge. She stays where she is. 

The second guard slips back through the gates, a breathless page close on his heels. 

“The princess will receive the Spirit of Time and his companion at the Shrine of Skies, if that is agreeable, Honored Spirit.” 

“It is.”

They go up. The path they take is clearly meant for pilgrims to the shrine, skirting around the outside of the castle. The great stone towers are perched on a hill overlooking Castle Town, and the holy site is at the highest point. Symbols of the royal line - the master sword, the triforce, a bird in flight - flap on every banner, decorate every column, march across the stones at their feet. The winds blow gentle and free, whispering of power. Birds chatter amongst a small copse of trees. Castle Town spreads out below. It is almost as if they are on top of the world.

Zelda hardly notices any of it, distracted by the girl who waits for them there. 

The princess of this Hyrule is short, young, bright like the sun, all friendliness and good humor. There is a cheerful innocence about her that sings of everything Zelda has lost, and Zelda swallows back a wave of unbecoming envy. There is also a feeling of rightness, familiarity. Like standing next to her mother, but not. 

The princess notices it at nearly the same time Zelda does. Her eyes, initially on Time, snap to Zelda instead. 

“Oh! Your magic. It’s just like mine.”

The Spirit of Time flicks his ears at her, rocking Zelda in the saddle when he stamps an impatient foot. Zelda startles and dismounts, staring at the princess all the while. It is indecorous. She cannot help it. 

“Princess,” Zelda greets, and her bow is one to an equal. “Yes. It is.” She takes a breath, and a leap of faith. There is no duplicity in this girl. “I am Princess Zelda. It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

“You are me,” the princess of this world, this era, breathes. Her entire being lights up with excitement, curiosity. “I am Princess Dorotea. But please, call me Dot.” Her smile is quick, friendly. “All my friends do.” 

“Princess?”

Zelda hides her startlement. Dot whirls around, a brilliant smile upon her face, to face the new spirit. Zelda hadn’t even felt him approach. Now that she’s paying attention, she wonders how she missed him; he throbs with the magic of the royal line. 

“Please, Zelda, let me introduce my friend, the Spirit of the Skies and guardian of the royal family of Hyrule. Sky, this is Princess Zelda.” 

“Yes, I see.” 

The spirit has alighted on an ornate perch, a soft grey bird roughly size of a large eagle. She looks at him and sees a creature of lore, sees images of a bird cradling the triforce between its wings, a symbol so often found in ancient temples and holy texts alike. Somehow smaller than she expected, but no less easy to place because of it: a loftwing. He spreads his wings and there are too many, more unfolding from under the first set, a halo of feathers, flashes of brilliant red and multiple hues of blue and green. 

Dot runs forward and envelops him in a hug. 

Everything about him would seem soft, gentle, were it not for that undercurrent of power. It feels so familiar, reminds her so strongly of home. A pang of terrible longing shoots through her, a surge of fear. 

Sky gives the impression of a smile, a hug, though she has not left Time’s side. “Courage,” he admonishes. 

Courage? “The princess is meant to bear wisdom.” She cannot help the slight bitterness to the words. What good has all the wisdom of all the mortal doctors of the realm done for her?

A slight shrug. A mere rolling of the shoulders, wings resettling, vanishing one by one under the outer pair. “Sometimes what you need is courage.”

A hand slips into hers. Zelda startles, looks down to see Dot smiling up at her. Young eyes carry far too much understanding. “We’re sneaking into town,” Dot says to Sky, Zelda’s hand held firmly in her own. “Want to come?”

They are?

“Sneaking?” Zelda looks at Time. As Malon so correctly pointed out, a mighty black horse in armor such as his will draw attention wherever he goes. As soon as the thought enters her mind, his form fades, first growing translucent and then vanishing altogether. The impression of his presence, however, only seems to grow. It takes a telepathic nudge, tinged with a hint of mischievous amusement, for her to realize he’s come to rest in her magic. 

The Spirit of the Skies turns to Dot. “I’ll need to go with your new friend,” he tells her gently. 

Dot nods, the hint of fun fading for a moment in the face of solemn knowledge. “I know. Time wouldn’t be here if she didn’t need all of you.” 

“Are you prepared?” Sky asks her, and Zelda inclines her head. She knows what to expect this time, but the sudden drain on her magic is still startling. She draws a heavy breath, scrubbing a hand across her chest in discomfort. The spirit gives her mind a friendly nudge, and she can feel him doing the same to Time. They shuffle against each other, as if making space in a cramped room, exchanging polite greetings like casual friends meeting up for tea. 

When Zelda’s focus returns to the outside world, she finds Dot waiting patiently. “Are you ready?”

She is. 

Dot leads them out of the castle. There are many guards along the path to the shrine. The confidence and ease with which Dot avoids them all tells Zelda that she has done this many times. 

The first place they go is the local blacksmith. It might seem an odd location were it not for the holy presence in the air. First a ranch, now a smithy. The spirits of this Hyrule are rooted strongly in their people. 

The blacksmith is a no-nonsense man with scattered burns across his hands and arms and gruff affection in his heart. He returns Dot’s hug and Zelda’s careful nod. “Go on, then,” he tells them. “I know who you’re really here for.” 

The holy site is small, tucked away as it is behind the back of the building. Small but expansive, trailing lines of magic stretching out around it like roads leading off in every direction. 

Dot crouches, holding out her hands and exchanging greetings with something Zelda cannot see. There is a strange, spotty absence that tells Zelda there should be something there. 

_”The Minish,”_ Time murmurs in the back of her mind. 

_”Visible only to children,”_ Sky adds, and Zelda wonders at how a person can feel a sense of loss for something they never knew. 

The spirit himself, at least, is perfectly visible to her once he decides to reveal himself, even if his form is every bit as small as his holy site would suggest. 

“Dot! You’re still short!” 

“Four! You’re still tiny!”

Zelda’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. 

_”They saw each other only a week ago,”_ Sky answers her unspoken question, full of good humor. _”And yes, they are always like this.”_

The Quadripartite Spirit (“Call him Four, his full title is far too pretentious for someone that small.” “Like you’re one to talk, Princess.”) takes the form of a mouse, who very quickly shows off his namesake when his form blurs and splits into multiple parts, scurrying up Dot’s arms to hug her neck and settling into her lap and hands. Braided ribbons twine around four necks and hover in the air over four backs, trailing streams of color that shift and move like winter lights in the sky. 

He grows solemn when he looks at Zelda, and she is more than tired of getting that reaction from mortal men; she is beginning to hate that spirits look upon her and see the same thing they do. Four rejoins into one form, the better to fix her with a direct stare and a no-nonsense mental tap, oversized ears pricked her way and long feathered tail twitching. 

“Of course I’ll come,” he says, and Zelda’s access to her own magic diminishes just a little more.

They stop at a bakery and arrive at Castle Town Garrison with powdered sugar dusting their mouths and hands. The Sheikah General there is a woman of sharp eyes and sharp mind, loyalty as rigid as her spine. The Spirit of Warriors is equally as proud, a stately albino elk with blue jewels hanging from his antlers, elegant silver armor draping over his sides. He is of a height with Time, though with less bulk. Sky manifests to land on his back, greeting him happily. 

Zelda does her best to take in everything Dot shows her of her home. She wants to see this version of Castle Town, so vibrant and full of life like her own yet so different all the same, but dark thoughts plague her steps. She must enjoy the day here, just in case it’s the last like it she ever has. Just in case she never makes it home. Her steps grow heavier with every spirit that draws upon her magic, her mind crowded and heavy with other beings’ thoughts. Her stomach grows ill, her muscles tremble, her chest tightens. 

Zelda rests that night on royal pillows in a royal bed. Spirits murmur amongst themselves in her mind. The room is not her room. Her mind will not quiet, her heart will not release the terrible knot it forms in her chest. Fine fabric absorbs her tears. 

She sleeps long and does not feel rested upon waking. A heaviness has settled in her lungs, mirror to the jelly in her limbs. Her eyelids drag, as do her feet. 

She has prayed to the tripart goddesses since she was a young child, and never more fervently than in these past few months. She lit candles and incense in the Temple of Din, tied long grass into prayer knots before Farore, scratched prayer circles into ornate trays of sand for Nayru, and found comfort in the ritual. There are no great temples here, but Zelda has a candle and she lights it. They are in a town with no long grass so she ties a prayer knot in a piece of ribbon instead. She pours sand from a bottle into a small travel tray and draws a prayer circle. Then she snuffs the candle, unknots the ribbon, pours the sand back into the bottle, and puts it all away. 

For Hylia, she does nothing. Every night she lays to bed is a prayer to the Goddess of the People for one more day.

The spirits watch and keep any comments amongst themselves. 

After breakfast, Dot gives her a map, and a direction to travel, and a letter. It declares that she is on a quest for the Princess of Hyrule, “To open any doors that the spirits cannot.” In the privacy of the castle, Sky and Four give Dot parting hugs while Warriors and Impa exchange respectful bows. Dot flings her arms around Zelda in turn, all youthful enthusiasm. “Be careful on the road,” she says after she has pulled away, straightening her dress. “The desert can be unkind. Give my regards to Chief Riju.” 

Zelda walks out of Castle Town with Four riding on straight shoulders that want to tremble, with eyes wide open despite the way they want to droop, with Time wary and watchful on one side and Warriors proud and confident on the other. Sky’s shadow passes over them as the road into this foreign mimic of her home once again opens up before her. 

△ △ △

In the journey to the desert, Zelda finds new ways in which her body can betray her.

She tries to practice archery, an activity she has always found to improve her focus, but her arms shake and tremble and she quickly decides to give it up before the poor performance can take root in her muscle memory. She regrets not taking advantage of more opportunities to engage in the beloved activity before now. 

Zelda wakes each day and exhaustion plagues her. She stares at the sky, feeling numb and ill, until Warriors and Four materialize. Warriors lays at her side, hooves tucked up under him, as Four roots through her bag, pulling out a waterskin and wrapped square of simple breakfast bread. The food holds little appeal. 

Warriors lowers his head to nudge at the bag. “Her hairbrush too.”

Four stands up on his hind legs, saying somewhat irritably, “What does that matter? She needs to eat.”

An edge of insistence enters Warriors’ voice. “Just do it, Four.” Four huffs but retrieves her hairbrush, dropping it on her lap. Zelda’s hand closes around it. She sits. By the time she’s done brushing, she feels awake enough to sip at the water and nibble at the food. 

On this morning, as every morning, she lights a candle, ties a knot in a long piece of grass, and draws pictures in a tray of sand. The candle does not give her warmth. The knot does not undo the snarl in her gut. Her hand trembles with fatigue around the fine drawing tool.

She blinks, and the icons blur.

The spirits usually leave her alone for her morning prayers, but on this day Sky materializes in her lap. She holds him tightly and tries to remember the feeling of hugging her mother. “What if it doesn’t work?” She whispers into his feathers. “What if these are my last days and I’m spending them here?”

"And if it does? Isn't it worth the chance?"

Every day, the world unfurls before her, the scenery a slow shift and change from fields of grass, to forest, to low rocky mountains. This Hyrule is beautiful. Her heart aches. 

The spirits, at least, are blessed distraction as they travel. 

Time speaks of seasons passing, the change in the land. Warriors of the hero who slept here or the army that passed there or the great battle that took place in this field. Four comments on her equipment and that of passing travelers, points out places where tiny creatures take their rest. Sky speaks of spiritual things and the people of Castle Town, but also how beautiful the skies are. He always thinks the skies are beautiful, no matter what they look like that day.

Desert sands are too deep, it seems, for any horse, even a spirit one. Time and Warriors both retreat from the physical world. Sky flies above, showing the way, though the further into the desert they go the less she needs his guidance. The draw of magic that signals a spiritual nexus grows more apparent by the day. Four scurries about on her shoulders, her head, retreating to her pockets and then to her mind when the heat becomes too much. 

_”Come back to me,”_ her mother whispers, and Zelda’s feet drive on. 

△ △ △

Zelda finds the Gerudo behind the walls of their desert town. She is a woman and an obvious traveler; she has no difficulty getting through the outer gates. Her feet drag with exhaustion, once pristine travelling gear now stained with mud and covered in sand. Begging an audience with the chief is a task made unfamiliar by the fact that here she is no royalty. But she carries spirits in her soul, a letter from the princess of this era, the weight of limited time on her shoulders and the stubbornness of her mother on her tongue. 

When she states her purpose, shows Dot’s letter, the palace guards trade a long look. 

_“I could come out and help?”_ Sky offers. She thinks negation in his direction and keeps her face as stone. Her pride does not wish to rely on the spirits for every simple thing. Misery and despair well up when it seems she will have to regardless, but then the guard nods. 

Chief Riju is a mighty woman with white lace on her black skirts and a golden crown on her head. A thick braid flows off the seat of her throne in a brilliant red wave. She is master of these lands and moves with the ease of one comfortable in their power. Standing before her with mud on her boots and sand in her hair, magic muddy and difficult to grasp, Zelda feels every inch the humble petitioner. 

“You wish to see the spirits of the desert.” Riju leans back, cheek propped up on her hand. Zelda cannot quite tell what she is thinking. 

“Yes.”

“Most Hylians content themselves with visiting those near the castle. Not many make the pilgrimage to our desert. Only the most desperate or the most devout. Which are you, I wonder.” 

Zelda, barely standing, mind and magic sluggish, takes too long to answer. A decisive spike rolls off the chief. What she has decided, Zelda cannot guess. 

“It is too late in the day to begin the journey now,” Riju declares with finality. “You have the night to prepare.”

△ △ △

When Zelda ventures deeper into the desert, she has Gerudo company. The two women are as night and day. Urbosa, their guard and the chief’s own aunt, crackles like lightning, silver streaking her red hair. Marin, a priestess with a pink flower tucked behind her ear and a song in her heart, comes as spirit envoy. The spirits of the desert, Zelda is told, can be shy and difficult to draw forth. 

The land is vast and hot and the sand is loose and deep. Zelda’s muscles burn, her stomach rolls, and she cannot draw enough air into her lungs. Their pace is slow.

Out in the middle of the dunes, surrounded on all sides by sand, flowers bloom and an open pool of water rests in the shade of a gigantic skeleton, an oasis born from the decay of an ancient leviathan. Marin steps up to the pool with a joyful greeting. 

An enormous fairy emerges from beneath the water. “Child!” She coos at Marin, magic coating her voice like syrup. “You have come to visit us again! And you've brought the lady Urbosa! But who is this?”

“It is wonderful to see you again, Lady Tera. This is Zelda, a Hylian pilgrim. She is on pilgrimage at the behest of Princess Dorotea, seeking the Spirits of Legendary Tales and all things Fey.”

“My my, such a long way the Hylian has come to visit our little oasis.” Cunning laces the sugar of the fairy’s words. “I think you have journeyed even further than your guides realize.” 

The spirits in her soul stir, and stretch, and reach. 

Urbosa goes watchfully still. Marin exclaims aloud and then laughs in delight as first Time flickers into view, then Warriors, Sky, and Four. The priestess holds out a hand, and Sky obligingly alights on her outstretched arm. 

The fairy watches them with no surprise. “The need is great indeed, if it requires all of you.”

Time dips his head. “We collect our brothers.”

“Were she to remain in this world, any one of us would be enough.” Four scampers onto Warriors’ head, ignoring the irritable flick of his ears. 

“But she must return home,” Warriors continues. 

“And so we must call on a different power,” Sky concludes, feathers flashing color as he fans his wings.

“I see.” The fairy taps her chin with one brightly painted fingernail. 

“Please,” Zelda bows, and searches for more words, and finds none. A hand touches her elbow. Urbosa.

“We will help you, girl,” the lightning woman says. “No need to fret.”

“Indeed not,” agrees the great fairy, and a wave of magic pours up out of her pool. It spills across the flowers and sand, puddling in the low spaces and surging up over the dunes like the rising tide. As quickly as it spreads, it pulls back in. In the wake of power, two spirits follow. 

The desert hare is the soft pink-orange of a sunset on sand. Earrings line his long ears, and tiny wings flutter at each of his ankles. He takes one look at her, at the gathering of spirits around her, and huffs. “Again?” he grumbles. The second spirit flicks one of his ears, playful chastisement, and he twitches. His entire countenance changes when he spots Marin. She smiles, and when she scoops him up into a hug he offers no protest. Zelda turns away to greet the second spirit. 

He mimics the form of a fairy, as tall as her forearm is long with delicate gossamer wings fluttering at his back. His body is thorny vines and blooming flowers and precious jewels, twined together into a facsimile of limbs, torso, face. This one is much friendlier than his counterpart. He zips over to hover in the air before her face, touching a hand to his chest. “I am the Spirit of all that is Magic and Fey. Please, call me Hyrule. My brother is the Spirit of Legend.” 

Zelda can do nothing but bow in return, murmuring polite greeting. Hyrule studies her. She feels the flicker of his magic, soothing, sliding through her like silk. 

“It’s working,” he tells her. “The sickness no longer spreads.”

“...What?” A breath. She dares not hope. 

The spirit offers her a kind smile. “It’s working.” Hyrule repeats. 

That can’t be right. “But… then how I feel…” The tiredness, the heaviness in her chest, surely some of that is due to the disease, not the cure. 

“I did warn you,” Time reminds her, not unkind. 

“Yes.” He had. 

Flowers and gems do not make for the most mobile of faces, but Hyrule’s mental touch is soft and sad, the impression of a fleeting smile. “A side effect of our draw on your magic. It will not get better.” 

“Oh.” Zelda swallows. Grief is a familiar companion, one she recognizes intimately. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d begun to hope until it is once again flung through the cracks of her shattered heart. _But I will live._ She looks desperately to the beauty of flowers blooming, surrounded by sand, thinks of a promise she must keep. _I will live._

△ △ △

The spirit of Hyrule, Zelda finds, is an especially harsh drain on her magic. His joining pulls so much from her that the great fairy has to lend a healing hand so she might be able to walk back to Gerudo Town. The world feels muffled, muted. She spends one more hazy night with the Gerudo before continuing on to the next point on Dot’s map. 

There are more consequences to this draining of her magic than she at first realizes, but they are made quite clear to her before she has fully left the desert again. She passes a man on the sandy road who seems a simple traveler. His shoes are somewhat worn, his expression neutral. The spirits are difficult to hear now when they are incorporeal. By the time she comprehends their warnings, a dagger glints in the traveler’s hand. She startles, reaching for her own weapons. Too close for the bow: she wastes too long reaching frantically for magic that does not come before remembering the knife, the knife-

As one, the spirits froth into being around her. Warriors stands at the fore, antlers lowered, the rest of them surrounding her and radiating enough protective ire that it finally penetrates the haze her magical senses have become. “Leave,” Time commands, with no gentleness to temper his tone. 

The man flees. Zelda searches, and feels… nothing. No greed, nor malice, nor desperation. The sky is bright and blue above her. Why does the world feel so dull?

In Ordon Village, Zelda should find respite. It is a small, cozy place. It should feel welcoming, friendly. She arrives just after dusk, on foot out of an abundance of caution. Both ankles are swollen terribly inside her boots, causing pain with every step. Time continues to insist she ride, and once out of the desert and back on the packed dirt roads she had, but she no longer knows who she can trust. Best to be the simple pilgrim here, rather than a woman travelling with the spirits of the land. 

“The spirit spends nights in the Twilight Realm,” she is told by a round-faced villager who smells of sweat and hay. Goats bleat in a pasture to their left as the man’s companion drives the herd towards their barn for the night. “You’ve just missed him. Spend the night here; it isn’t safe to be in the forest after dark. I’ll mark the path on your map and you can head out at first light.” 

Pity and caution causes his eyes to linger on her mud-stained clothes, but she doubts. People do terrible things out of caution. 

The spirits tell her she is safe. Still, she does not sleep well that night. She wakes before dawn: lights a candle, ties a knot, draws a picture, and finds no comfort. 

Deep in the woods, Zelda finds a mirror, an empty spirit pool, and a woman of twilight. 

Pre-dawn light casts the forest into hushed stillness. The woman’s hair blazes like the last embers of a dying sun, her body swirled with patterns of light and shadow, her eyes piercing and sharp. 

“The spirit? He’ll be on my side a little longer yet. Come across then, girl. If you dare.” She smiles, and her teeth are sharp. She watches, and Zelda cannot tell if it is honest challenge or a lure for the unwary. She cannot read this woman. She should be able to. 

_”Midna’s fine,”_ Legend scoffs in the privacy of her mind. His voice projects as if he is shouting, but she hears the words as a whisper. _”She just likes to play.”_

Zelda hears him, but she thinks of a traveler with a knife and how there is emptiness where intent should be. Polite refusal comes to rest on her face even as doubt at her own instincts settles in her heart. Midna sees it. 

“Remain here and wait, then,” she snaps, and vanishes before Zelda can apologize or correct her mistake. 

The spirits go quiet. The Spirit of Twilight, when he comes through the mirror some time later, alone, watches her with reproach. His fur is like Midna’s skin, swirled grey and white with twili markings, a pendant the same orange as Midna’s hair hanging from his neck.

“My apologies,” Zelda whispers aloud, but the person they are meant for cannot hear and so the words fall useless on the ground.

△ △ △

In the journey to the sea, Zelda searches her own heart and finds only self-doubt. She says her prayers, though her hands shake on the implements and her back and knees protest as she kneels. She looks at the spirits and what should be a bright spot of magic is but a dim glow. She fights against her body each morning to open her eyes, to rise, to ride or walk, and tries to imagine spending the rest of her life living like this. She does not know if she can, and guilt follows the thought. She is at least alive, and she has a promise to keep. 

Legend snorts at her one morning while she stares at her food and does not wish to eat. “You have to look for the good things,” he tells her, imperious and cutting. “Happiness isn’t going to just fall into your lap.”

“Legend!” Hyrule chides, tugging on the tip of one long pink ear. Legend flicks it irritably. 

“No, please, he’s fine.” Zelda says to Hyrule, holding her hands out to them both. Hyrule alights on her shoulder, and Legend acquiesces to a hug. “I look for the good things, but they don’t bring the joy that they used to,” she confesses into sunset fur. 

“Look anyway.”

“I will. I am.” 

△ △ △

When Zelda meets Tetra, this time she is careful to listen to the spirits when they assure her the woman holds no malice. Tetra is brash and loud, with weatherbeaten skin and wind-tossed hair. She names a price of passage to the island where the Spirit of the Winds resides and Zelda has no idea if it is fair. The spirits do not know either; money is a mortal affair. She would not balk at the sum at home, so Zelda makes the choice to trust, and agrees. 

“Not the first time we’ve taken a pilgrim out to the spirit,” Tetra informs her, hands on hips and feet planted wide. “We’ll have to skirt around Zora waters to do it. They’re usually friendlies, but if they hail us we stop to pay our respects. Trouble with the Zora is trouble I don't need.”

The wind favors them. The ship dances across the waves with full sails and proud bow bearing true. Zelda finds a somewhat quiet place to stand, watching the sun sparkle and dance on the water, feeling the sea spray in her hair. The spirits stir, taking interest. Four and Hyrule are both fearless, curious, and small enough that their manifestation would perhaps have gone unnoticed had Sky not also come out to spread his wings. Zelda’s spot is not out of the way enough to hide a spirit the size of an eagle perched on the ship’s railing. Tetra spots him near immediately. 

“No mere pilgrim, are you.” She watches Zelda, and Zelda cannot tell what she is thinking. “How many of them are with you?”

“Seven of us so far,” Four answers from her shoulder. Sky is distracted, his multitude of wings unfurled as though considering flight. Hyrule darts among them, giggling. 

“Wasn’t asking you, little spirit.” Tetra’s fingers tap against her belt. “Seven, and Wind will make eight. Only one more after him.”

“Yes.”

Tetra nods. The motion is sharp, and Zelda thinks that the curl of her mouth is satisfied. “Knew you looked like a competent one.”

“How can you tell?” Perhaps it is spending so long away from court, weeks on the road with spirits who can hear her every thought should they choose to, that allows the words to slip out. Zelda’s lips curl under her teeth before she smooths them again. She is but a humble pilgrim in this land, not a princess required to be a public face of wisdom and serenity. There is no harm in the question, surely. 

Tetra grins. “Well now. You asking for lessons?”

She hadn’t intended to, but…”Yes. I suppose I am. If you’d be willing.” 

Tetra drops her a wink. “A day at sea is hardly enough time to really show you the ropes, but I suppose I could teach you a few tricks.”

And so Zelda spends the remainder of the trip, or as much time of it as Tetra can spare, finding that perhaps she can start to learn to understand people again after all. 

△ △ △

With anchor weighed just off the sandy shore of a wind-swept island, Tetra shows her the way. “Follow the river inland.” Her pointing finger traces a snaking course through the air, following the path of the visible river mouth further into the island. “You’ll know it when you get there.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I’m a sea captain, not a spirit envoy. I stay with my boat. Oh don’t worry, girl. The only visitors this island gets are Zora, Rito, and pilgrims like yourself. Stay with the river and you won’t get lost. The tide turns in four hours. You have until then.”

Unlike with the other spirits, she cannot feel the pool of power as she follows the river inland. She has to trust that Tetra and the spirits would not steer her wrong. She follows a rocky path, shaded by palm trees, gradually upwards. Her legs and lungs burn. The river is white water, spilling down small falls and frothing over rocks. Palm trees give way abruptly to an open clearing, swept by wind that blows her hair and clothes into a whipping frenzy. A bubbling spring in the center of the clearing marks the river’s origins. The wind whistles between rocks and branches, sounding almost like music, as gulls call distantly overhead. Tetra was correct; that this is the spirit’s home is quite clear, even without the pull of magic to tell her so.

Unlike the times before, here Zelda has no envoy. The spirits rest quietly, watching. She is magic blind and hates it; she no longer catches the stray edges of their thoughts and emotions, can no longer hear them unless they speak directly and forcefully to her, cannot tell if the spirit here is close or far. 

Zelda kneels at the water’s edge, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes. Words. The only thing most of the other spirits required was words. 

“Honored spirit,” she calls into the winds that blow and swirl. Is it her imagination, or does the air go just a little still? “I come seeking your aid.”

Bright laughter answers her, bubbling through the air like the water in the spring. “A visitor!” 

Zelda opens her eyes. An otter frolics in the current. Long fins, like those of the Zora, flow down his body and off his tail. If he spread them Zelda could almost believe he could take flight. The Spirit of Winds jumps and splashes in his pool, little claws and needle teeth catching the light. He zips through the water towards her, standing on his hind legs once he reaches the shore, all his fins fluffed up around him, head tilted in curiosity. “Of course I’m coming! You can’t leave me behind when you’ve got all my brothers with you!”

Wind does not immediately join with her magic. He follows in the river as she picks her way back to the edges of his island, darting onto the little boat she was given to reach the shore. “Hold tight!” he says cheerfully once she’s climbed in. Zelda barely has time to sit, gripping tight to the edges, when the waters beneath them move and swirl. The boat shoots across the waves of its own accord, the spirit laughing all the while. 

“Can all of you do this?” Zelda gasps, hanging on with white knuckles and a rising fullness in her heart.

“We’re in my domain! Of course I have power here. I’ll have to join with you like my brothers did to leave the ocean, but until then we can have fun!” 

The wind whips her face, smelling of sun and brine, snatching her hair from the confines of its braids. Her stomach lifts and soars with every swell of waves they bounce across. They circle Tetra’s boat twice before the captain leans over the rails and hollers at the spirit, telling him in no uncertain terms that he is not to mess with her sails. 

On a tiny boat in the middle of the sea, Zelda finds a spark of joy again. 

△ △ △

  
Before they again reach the mainland, Zelda meets the Zora. “The Queen wishes to speak with the one who collects the spirits of the land,” the lead guard calls from the water. They are visibly armed. Zelda has no doubt that, though they have no boat, they do not need one to sink Tetra’s ship with little effort. 

Tetra reads her panic. “I’ll take you, girl, don’t worry. But once we’re there...” 

“You stay with the ship.”

Tetra’s grin is sharp, but Zelda thinks she reads approval in her eyes. “Now you’re getting it.”

Queen Ruto is a graceful woman. Delicate white fins pour from her arms and hips in frothy waves that put any court dress to shame. In stark contrast to their mother’s subdued blue, both her children are a red as brilliant as the flashes of color in Sky’s feathers. Zelda watches Mipha huddle over a book with Four and Hyrule on either shoulder as young Sidon chases Wind and Twilight in gleeful circles. She looks at them and sees Cook’s children and wishes to be home. 

“My people have long been friends of the Spirit of the Winds,” the Queen tells her over delicate cups of Zora tea. It is a refreshing drink, cold and fruity. Zelda quite likes it. She does not know what it is the Queen desires. One afternoon spent in lessons with a sea captain isn’t enough to learn to truly read people again. But the Spirit of Legend rests soft and solid in her lap, and childish laughter fills the air, and Zelda can hide behind the familiar motions of court formality.

“You know,” Queen Ruto says, her eyes on her children, “Magical abilities are quite common in my kingdom. The loss of them is, unfortunately, something we have some experience with as well.” 

The hand resting on Legend’s back goes still. She can feel the steady drum of his heart beneath her palm. 

The queen smiles. “Princess Dot and my Mipha exchange letters regularly.” She sets her cup in its saucer, stately and slow. “I know who you are and from where you have come. Unlike the young Princess, I also know what the side effects of hosting spirits can be.”

The brief bloom of terror slowly gives way to a rising tide of realization. The queen is still a total stranger, Zelda still uncertain of her ability to read intent, and Zelda knows to be cautious of foreign royalty even if she is in another world entirely. She must guard her tongue. Still, still. Here is someone who might understand. 

The sun has long set, the dinner hour come and gone, by the time Zelda and the Queen are done speaking. 

△ △ △

In the journey to the last spirit, Zelda finds new determination. Her mind is turned in on itself, mulling over her conversation with Queen Ruto, her afternoon with Tetra.

She thinks of her mother, not only in promises made but who she is: a queen known for compassion, for rule that is peaceful and just. Thinks of her life to this time, of simple pleasures not yet lost. Thinks of the enjoyment, the feeling of discovery, as Tetra taught her to read people in an entirely new way. 

Her body moves as Time does, hips and spine twisting with the sway of his measured steps. Pain sparks, little lightning strikes up her limbs. Her ankles are swollen inside her boots, her body light and heavy. She looks up and the sky is grey, the road muddy, the land vast. There are flowers blooming at the side of the path, travelers all with their own stories and histories, a pleasant crispness in the air upon her face. The spirits are manifested around her, enjoying the chance to stretch and play. 

And play they do, squabbling and teasing like children, though Zelda doubts anyone at home will believe it. 

Legend tries to take refuge from Wind’s constant harassment with a great leap upon Warriors back. Warriors throws his head down, charging forward and stopping just as abruptly, and Legend startles back off of him, hiding behind Twilight's legs instead and launching a great stream of invective at his brothers. Twilight snorts in amusement and lets Legend use him as a shield. 

Zelda thinks of returning home without them and sorrow weighs her shoulders as surely as the fatigue. Perhaps it is the lightness of her head, or the comfort of watching the spirits play, but the sudden urge rises in her to ask them if they’ll come home with her, even knowing what the answer must be.

She bows her head, blinking against the burn in her eyes. The land is beautiful and the mood light. Why must she cry? 

Sky, riding behind her on Time, presses up against the small of her back. “There is a Rito settlement close by. You can rest there for the night.”

Zelda nods, concentrates on staying upright upon Time’s back. A glimmer of sunlight through a break in the clouds casts a glow over the land, catches on the gems that hang in Warriors’ antlers. It is beautiful. 

△ △ △

In the Rito village, Zelda cannot know their intentions, but she finds compassion and caring regardless. She is too tired to walk in under her own power; it has been a long journey from the coast. 

The Rito greet Sky with clear joy, flying about him with reverence, with glee. The Spirit of the Skies may be benefactor and guardian of the royal family, but the air and all those who live in it are his domain, and they know him well. Fledgling children too young for flight swarm about Time and Warriors’ feet, crawl all over Twilight, completely unafraid. Time stops moving rather than risk stepping on one of them, and the adults take that as permission to approach.

“Oh my dear, here let me help you.” Feathered arms lift her off Time, help her into a bed where fresh air rifles through her hair and warm blankets ward off the chill.

Zelda wakes to song. There is a large Rito man playing a slow and soft tune on an accordion, holding the rapt attention of several of the spirits. Distant laughter, playful barks and excited otter chitters give her location of more. 

A woman with feathers the same soft pink as Legend’s fur rests a gentle limb on her shoulder. “You’re awake, good.” Her feathers ruffle in a Rito smile. “Amali is preparing soup. You just rest up. Once you’re ready, my husband Teba will accompany you to the spirit. It’s a bit of a journey yet, I'm afraid. He is the Spirit of the Wilds, after all.” Her laugh is soft and light.

Teba treats her like she imagines a father would. He is blunt, careful rather than cruel. They fly, Zelda on his back and Sky taking wing along with them, the others hiding away. The journey is too long on foot, too much of a climb. The air is cold, the ground a long way down. Teba is interested in her bow and her archery skills, his attitude shifting from somewhat distant to actively engaged when she proves she can speak of the crafting techniques involved in its creation with some intelligence. 

Wind proves that he can indeed fly, or at least glide, when he manifests in mid air. Zelda’s heart stops for a bare instant before his fins all stretch open to catch him. Hyrule joins him a moment later, the two of them tumbling and laughing through the air until Wind loses too much height and Sky has to dive to fetch them. 

The spirit’s home is high on a plateau. A quiet mountain meadow sits surrounded by hardy trees. A fox jumps up on a small boulder at the opposite end of the clearing, watching them with tilted head and pricked ears, branches in bloom sprouting from his head like antlers. Zelda could almost swear she spots leaf-like faces among the trees.

“Wild,” Teba says. No honorifics, as if he were simply greeting a friend. Perhaps he is.

Nine spirits gather with Zelda in an open-air Rito inn that night. She curls up against Warriors and Twilight, the rest of them piled in her lap and against her back and perched on her shoulders, Time standing watchfully over them all. Her eyelids droop and her body aches, but fear and uncertainty keep her awake. What if she’s come all this way and they are unable to tie the magic so that she might return home? What does she do then?

“Now what?” she asks, watching Hyrule quietly play with the flowers in Wild’s antlers. 

Time answers. “Now we go to the Lost Woods.”

△ △ △

Teba flies her part way, “To shorten the journey.” Suddenly realizing she will soon need to say goodbye, Zelda is not certain she wants the help even as she appreciates having it.

Her head is light, her body heavy, pain and fatigue her constant companions, the world bereft of magic. But she says her prayers and finds comfort, she wakes to nine spirits and finds companionship, she thinks of the future and imagines learning to lead as her mother does, imagines seeing Cook’s children grow, imagines watching the sun set over the ocean of her home. 

Deep in the Lost Woods, Zelda finds a sacred grove and a sacred tree. A large stone platform rests before him, a pedestal with a proud sword, the stone marked with the symbol of the triforce and engravings of nine spirit animals arrayed around it. 

“You have come,” the Great Decu Tree speaks through a mouth of craggy bark. “The Master Sword has long stood as ward and seal. Touch it, and your journey will be done.” Zelda approaches it, drawn as if she can still feel the magic the blade surely radiates. 

This blade, she knows with certainty, will seal her fate. A lifetime of pain and fatigue and a world without magic.

To live such a lifetime is still better than to die. It must be. “Is there no other way?” She cannot help but ask as the spirits spread out in a circle around her, positioning themselves over the markings of their likenesses.

“You know the answer to that question,” the tree rebukes her. “Grip the hilt, Princess Zelda of Hyrule, but do not draw the blade. Come and finish what you have begun.” 

Zelda draws a breath and reaches out a hand. 

The last faint trickle of her magic vanishes as if it never was, a stone door slamming solidly shut. Zelda is long past the point of grief. Her body feels lighter, almost. The finality of it all is still nearly her undoing. She looks to the spirits and is immediately buried in fur and feathers. She hugs them back desperately tight. 

A light begins to shine from between the trees, soft and yellow. 

“The way home is open before you,” the Decu Tree says. “Go, child, and live.” 

Live. She will live. (“Come back to me,” whispers her mother.) Zelda turns to the spirits. 

“Don’t worry for us!” Hyrule pipes. “We know our way home.” 

“The magic will hold,” Time reassures her. “Do you doubt us?”

“No,” Zelda says. “Of course not.” She hugs each of them in turn, one last time, arms around necks and smaller spirits cuddled close. “Thank you all. I will never forget you. Any of you.” 

Then Zelda stands, and steps, and with head held high, steps through the portal and lets herself be taken home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Then Zelda goes home and things are very, very difficult for a very long time. But she learns, and maybe some things never do get better but she adapts, and she lives.


End file.
